I'VE LOST TRACK of days.
One blends into the next, when you get no news, and aren't allowed to talk. It's endless day after endless day, and your beard starts to grow and your clothes wear out. I'd been in my unders all this time, but when one of the workers dies they put me in his rebel uniform. I feel bad for the boy that died, but I'm warmer at night, when it's cold.
I wonder what Gentry thought when I didn't show up. I know they would a' gone on to Lawrence to warn the people about the massacre. But Gentry would a' been beside herself with worry. Rose would a' said I probably passed them in the night, and would be waitin' for 'em in Lawrence.
But I weren't in Lawrence when they got there.
After warnin' the folks, did Gentry go on to Springfield with Rose, thinkin' I'd come there to find her? Rose would want to do that, since her adopted daughter, Hannah, was there. Or did Rose or Shrug bring her all the way back to Dodge? Knowin' Rose, my best guess is, she took Gentry to Springfield, which is only a few days away, and probably sent Shrug back to Dodge to check on me. Shrug can cover fifty miles a day on foot. He could make the trip from Lawrence to Dodge and back to Springfield in sixteen days.
I'm tryin' to do the cipher in my head, but I'm out of practice and have to give up several times.
It's another day, and I hoist the hammer, bring it down on what feels like the millionth rock, feel the shudder go through my bones, and frown, realizing this particular rock hasn't broken. I wonder where all these rocks come from? Who brings 'em to the hand cart people? I lift the hammer up over my head and bring it down a second time, with all my strength. This here's an ornery rock. Two blows and it hasn't busted. That's a rare thing, in my experience. I hoist again, and this time it breaks into five pieces. On the one hand, I'm sad, because I like to think of my spirit as bein' like this tough rock, able to withstand anythin'. On the other hand, it gives me a strange feelin' of satisfaction. Maybe that's because it's the only way to tell I'm alive. If I keep poundin' on a rock that don't break, maybe I'm dead and haven't realized it yet.
I stop a minute and look at the five pieces of stone, and smile, rememberin' that every time Shrug and I traveled durin' our two years together, he'd be up ahead, scoutin' the territory. Occasionally he'd set four stones on the ground, representin' north, south, east, and west. A fifth stone would show the direction I was supposed to follow.
The one thing I think about with every swing of the hammer is bustin the chain off my ankles. The daily rubbin' against my bare skin creates wounds that, like the rope in Rudy's nose, never heal. They open up every mornin', and hurt all day. I get rock dust in 'em constantly, and they get infected and ooze pus and blood all the time. And the skin around 'em is always blistered and chapped. The soldiers give me salve to put on 'em regular, and that helps keep the infection down, but it don't stop the pain. I don't suffer like Rudy done, but I understand his sufferin' more than I used to. I hate that I danced with him that first night when I didn't know any better, but proud I shot the piano, and the spurs off Hollis Williams' boots.
I smile, thinkin' about how Gentry loved to tease me about Rudy bein' my son.
I pound the pieces into smaller ones and try to remember what I was thinkin'. Oh yeah, the cipherin' of Gentry's trip. So figure seven days for Rose to get to Lawrence, two more days to realize I ain't there, six days for Shrug to walk all the way back to Dodge to check on me, another to realize I ain't there either, and eight more to walk the 400 miles from Dodge to Springfield.
I don't know how long I've been here, bustin' rocks, but it's probably been long enough for Shrug to have made his round trip. I think of poor Gentry, and what must be goin' through her mind. Will she stay in Springfield with Rose or go back to Dodge? She don't know it, but she's got a legal claim to the Spur. I put it in both our names. Someone will eventually tell her that, and I can only hope it's me.
Each day we're movin' further west. There's more than fifty of us now, and nearly thirty guards. I have no idea how far west we've come since I was forced into railroad labor, but it's significant, as we're now doin' more than 300 feet a day. The days keep meltin' one after the other, and the only thing that changes is the scenery.
Until one swelterin' August afternoon, when all hell breaks loose.